Pieces of a Man
by BabalooBlue
Summary: The first time is meant to be special. And sometimes, it is. One-shot. (With many thanks to the glorious songwriting of John Smith.)


_"The stars come twice the first time_

 _Crashing through my mind_

 _And slowly, I sink to my knees."_

 _Possession,_ John Smith

* * *

She is nothing like his first.

He had been 16 then, and US Dollars were a coveted asset, just as much as being tall and American. Nobody cared about age. Nobody cared about protection either, least of all the girl with the flashy earrings. She wasn't much older than him. Her nails were grimy around the pale pink polish, and she smelled of sweet perfume and gum.

He had been 16, bored and curious.

* * *

He is 42, depressed and desperate. Protection was the main concern during the short phone call earlier.

The time between his call and her arrival seems endless, with nothing to do but think about what had become of his life, nothing to do but wonder if this was another mistake.

When she knocks at his door, however, he downs one more bourbon – on top of the prescription painkillers it's about the only combination keeping him sane these days.

There are several ways this could go, and he has imagined all of them. This is a controlled encounter, strictly regulated. It's all he is currently able for, and even this is pushing it. The number of outcomes, however, is limited, and none of them would realistically leave him worse off than now – humiliation aside.

And he has become intimately acquainted with humiliation lately.

She knocks again.

He straightens in his seat. Clears his throat.

"Door's open."

* * *

She is nothing like his first.

No flashy earrings; hers are simple, golden studs. Instead of a see-through top, she wears a silky red dress which is held together by flower-shaped buttons in front, emphasizing her much more adult shape.

She smiles when she enters the hole he calls home – empty of the things Stacy took with her two months ago. All the small mementos he had enjoyed making fun of, leaving only dust in their place.

.

 _She focussed on the figure on the couch. The man who had called and asked for no specific type, just that whoever they sent wouldn't be a 'talker', ask no questions. She could do that. She didn't need to ask questions to know who she was dealing with._

 _He was tall and quite handsome_ , _if a little gaunt. He was also recently single, judging by the empty spaces between the textbooks. A musician too, but one who apparently preferred silence – or couldn't deal with the pictures it conjured up for him._

 _The cane in his reach registered together with the empty scotch glass and the fact that he didn't get up. Both hands on his thighs, protective rather than relaxed._

 _"I'm Veronica."_

 _He didn't take the opener, just nodded once and kept his eyes on her._

 _The only disconcerting part in this otherwise not unusual arrangement were his eyes._

 _While being able to read her clients was a must, she had stopped analyzing them some time ago. But here was someone who did just that with her. His eyes, clear and blue, and bright like gas flames, saw through her as if she had been put under the antique microscope displayed on one of his shelves._

 _._

She is pretty. A little younger than expected.

Veronica. Bringer of victory.

She holds her head high, clearly aware of his scrutiny. There is something certain in her eyes, something defying his examination. He doesn't need to know her, his desire to know is folly, he just wants to know one thing – needs to know.

.

 _Here was a man who supposedly didn't want to talk, and yet his eyes asked a hundred questions, none of which she would answer. They held in equal parts curiosity and apprehension._

 _She set her purse and coat on a chair and opened the top button of her dress._

 _And, just like that, desire joined curiosity and apprehension._

 _She smiled._

 _"It's not that you don't want me to speak. You just don't want me asking questions."_

 _._

A statement, not a question. Smart. For a second, the feeling of dread gives way to amusement.

Her hand rests against her chest like a promise, covering the second button which – once opened – will reveal her bra, if she's wearing one. She glances towards the doorway, then back at him.

In reply, he shifts in his seat and moves his left hand to rest on the couch.

She understands and takes a step forward, opening that button at the same time.

Black lace.

.

 _The hand still resting lightly on his leg indicated the right was his bad side._

 _The couch was low. This should work._

 _He was the client; he was calling the shots. But standing over him, she would be in control. He was well aware of this, and she guessed it was part of what was making him anxious._

 _He didn't look like someone who gave up control easily. What she could see of his apartment spoke of strength and intellect. And there he was, handing her control on a platter._

 _Tough position to be in._

 _Standing taller, looking down at him, wouldn't make it any easier._

 _._

She steps out of her heels and opens the last remaining buttons on her dress. Another step and their hands would touch. Could. He is no longer sure it's what he wants. With a slow wriggle, the fabric glides down over her hips and onto the floor – its whisper giving away its manmade provenance.

Leaving the red pool around her feet she moves to his left, her knee not quite touching his.

.

 _His gaze was steady now, no longer going up and down her body, but searching her face. Somewhere along the way, he would have to answer those questions himself._

 _It was quiet in the apartment, as quiet as it could be on a Saturday night with people out and about, walking, driving, making merry._

 _She could hear his breathing and knew he liked what he saw._

 _._

She raises her hands, covers her breasts and turns around, all in one slow motion.

"Undo me," she says and kneels with her back towards him. Again, not a question - a command. His hands obey, do as he's told, and open the bra closure almost without touching her skin.

That's the end of obedience, though, as he lets one hand slide down to her behind, also covered in lace, smooth but not as firm as it looks.

"A tits and ass man," she says. "Never met a guy who wasn't."

There is a smile in her voice, and he can see its shadow on her lips when she turns around, still on her knees, one hand holding up her bra.

"You agreed, no talking."

.

 _His voice was a little hoarse, as if from disuse._

 _So he liked to watch, and he liked to touch. But he didn't want to talk. Keeping himself safe and removed, while still putting part of himself out for this. It's as if his reminder not to talk had opened a space between them, even though they were closer now physically. They hovered around the edges of that space for a long moment until she put a hand on his leg, deliberately choosing his left, and very slowly ran it up from his knee. She felt him tense. And yet, this was what she was here for, this was what he wanted._

 _._

Putting on a pair of jeans had been an effort he had made for the first time in months today. He hadn't expected them to be so loose on his hips.

Except now they're getting tighter, and he can see her smile.

She's so close that suddenly his skin comes alive, and not just where her hand touches through the suddenly annoyingly rough material. All over, everywhere. Parts he thought dead suddenly feel alive. Her hand comes to a stop midway on his thigh. His skin tingles in response.

This is what he wants. This is what he needs.

And yet, some irrational part in him is screaming right now, his heart is racing, he wants to push her away, he wants to run.

He wants to run.

He can't.

.

 _This wasn't the good sort of excitement, she could tell. He looked spooked. His right hand held on to his thigh for dear life, while the left seemed lost on the couch next to him, slowly opening and closing. Fish out of water._

 _He wasn't the first._

 _His gaze had dropped to somewhere below her breasts. She placed her free hand on his left to get him to look at her._

 _There was a flutter of panic in his eyes._

 _Enough to be a problem._

 _There wasn't much time left._ _Whatever was going on, she needed to get him out of his head._ _What had happened so far wasn't the problem. What was about to happen could be, though, at least in his mind._

 _She could see his pulse beating on his neck and slowly placed her lips on that exact spot._

 _._

The unexpected contact shakes him out of the panic state he has somehow slipped into. Her hair brushes his face, and he can smell citrus.

Veronica knows what she's doing. She is paid not to judge.

Protecting his right leg, he tugs her panties down with his free hand and pulls her over.

.

 _She came to sit on his left leg, taking care not to jostle him. She didn't need to ask questions to see what was bothering him. The situation wasn't the problem; the problem was_ his _situation._

 _This was not a difficult assignment. It paid to go slow, but without hesitation. She knew, somehow, that just a small tell of insecurity on her part would kill this off instantly._

 _Once he began to relax just a little under her weight, she pulled his right hand off his thigh and put it around her waist. It was a risk she had to take._

 _He froze for a moment. Stopped breathing._

 _She registered but ignored it and went on to trail her fingers along his neckline._

 _._

She is nothing like his first and then again, she is the first _._

On this night, which he will later remember simultaneously as long as an eternity and as short as a heartbeat, she slowly begins the process of putting his body back together again. Assembling. Touching brings back to awareness parts of himself he had forgotten because he had been so focused on just one spot.

The sweet pain of a fingernail along his arm – pain is the wrong word, he knows that now - leaving its mark on the skin but not breaking it.

She doesn't seem to care that there are pieces he is missing, and not just the physical chunk from his leg. There are other parts normal people have, pieces he's either never had or lost. She moves around him, gathering parts of him together, working around those gaps, constructing a new whole out of what's left.

She rebuilds everything around those missing pieces. Even the hole in his leg gets drawn into the new whole.

When it finally comes, his release pulls it all together. It is a rebirth, a liberation of sorts. His body is his again, all of it – the good and the bad, even the pain, even his leg, the one he fought over and that's repaying him now with nothing but pain and anger and inability to just _do_. Unreliability.

From the beginning, he'd had no illusions and besides, she's a hooker, but tonight, she saved his life.

He takes a blissful moment to wonder how she managed to arrange his world around this void he's always felt so keenly. And then he realizes that not only has she reconstructed his body around that void, she's also filled it with something resembling contentment.

He marvels at this new construct; a body, a man, who is familiar, and yet a grotesque stranger. He knows it won't last. It could crumble any minute. But for now, it is enough.


End file.
